Where Is The Dancing Fool?
by MercurialNight
Summary: The final battle is over, but in its aftermath, the victory is overshadowed by the losses. Esmerelda wanders among the search parties, looking for familiar faces. The war is won at a grisly price-but one important gypsy is missing. T for dead peeps o.0


The courtyard was burning.

It wasn't so unexpected—after all, more than half of Paris had been burning for days now. But somehow, the very last flickers of fire, spread out among the cobblestone square at the foot of Notre Dame, reminded everyone of a revolutionary symbolism. The fiery flood had poured from the purest and most holy place left in the building—the hunchback's tower—and purged the place clean, burning away the sin and injustice that was Frollo and all he stood for. His body hadn't been recovered, but perhaps he lay among the charred bones that had been piled up far away at the edge of the courtyard. Nobody wanted to think of those now. The battle was over; they were free. It had come at a price, and nobody wanted to think of that.

It was still dark, around one in the morning, which only seemed to make her notice the fires more. As she picked her way around the burning, broken things, she held tight to Phoebus's hand. All around them, others were doing the same, assessing the losses—those including both items and lives. Battle-litter was strewn about, rubble and burning wood and the like. The cages that held the gypsies were abandoned, one overturned from its cart, which was broken and littered with small patches of dying flames. Off to the side, Clopin's puppeteer cart was overturned, all but one leg broken, its curtains being slowly eaten away by dim-glowing cinders. A pile of charred ashes lay in the center of the courtyard: what had once been the pyre meant for her.

Esmerelda felt a surge of discomfort, quickly followed by a feeling of crude and defiant delight. She'd beaten it. Well—Quasimodo had, really, but either way, the pyre and Frollo and her intended fate were conquered. Phoebus took his hand from hers, but before she could feel a sense of loss, his arm was wrapped around her shoulder. She offered a brief smile of thanks, placing her hand over his, as he guided her further on.

A familiar face appeared among those who were cleaning up. "Stella!" Es called, relief saturating her voice. The dark-haired young woman looked her way, eyes turning fond and elated. Esmerelda breathed a laugh and went out to meet the young gypsy.

"Esmerelda, thank goodness," she laughed brokenly, in a strong tenor voice. A broad grin broke her soot-smudged face as she wiped her hands on her equally dirty apron. It was the sort of smile that only appeared on a dirty and tired face, when one more small ray of relief broke through the dark work.

"A-and Phoebus…as well." Stella seemed unsure how to address the former captain of the guard. But Phoebus's soft smile and nod incited a comforted smile from the woman. "You...really you saved us. Among others, and…Thank you. For…you know, for being…" she broke off with a highly strained laugh and shook her head, running a hand over her eyes. "Oh, heavens! Simply for not being one of them."

Phoebus offered another gentle smile. "I'm just as relieved as you about that."

Stella laughed again, the shrill sound teetering on the edge of hysterics. Esmerelda reached out a hand and gently gripped her friend's arm. "Thank God you're safe. Who else have you seen?"

"Oh—lots, Es, lots more than I'd hoped. Dorian, Kiryana, um…Adeline. Adrien's family. Those little Broussard brothers…Thomas and his girl…oh, old Aldric: his whole entire family made it. All seven." At that, she beamed with delight. It seemed like she _had_ to keep smiling. She launched into another list of names, and though Esmeralda knew many and was glad to hear of their safety, there was one name she couldn't help but notice she wasn't hearing.

"S-Stella—Stella," she interrupted, trying to be gentle. Esmerelda wrung her hands, struggling to keep her voice steady. "…Clopin?"

Though Stella's smile stayed stretched across her face, quite a bit of its potency fell. Something in her eyes drained away. "Y…you know I haven't seen him yet…he's around here somewhere, Es, you know—he never stays in one place for very long."

Esmerelda nodded, stopping her again. "That's alright Stella. Thanks—really, thank you. I love those insufferable Broussard heathens..." she laughed, the first genuine laugh she'd enjoyed all night. It rather was like a surge of hysterics, but the good kind anyway.

They exchanged parting words and she moved away with Phoebus's hand in hers once again. "Don't _worry_," his strong, warm voice murmured gently. "He's faster and smarter than any soldier."

She nodded, trying her best to calm down. He was right. But her heart beat hollowly, fluttering in fear, and it refused to settle until everyone she loved was set safely before her eyes. Everyone. Phoebus was beside her—and _thank God_ for that!—Quasi was handling cleanup inside the church, and most of her gypsy family was either around her or back in the Court. But where was the dancing fool? Where was the man who had become like her adopted uncle—her source of joy? Where was the King of Gypsies…

They had come to the steps of the cathedral. Weary, Esmerelda sat down, and Phoebus beside her. He wrapped an arm around her, and with a tired sigh, she leaned her head on his shoulder. She wanted to search some more, of course, but her whole body was in an uproar. Every muscle ached, her lungs still burned with smoke, and she had that hollow feeling at the base of her ribcage that you only got when you haven't slept all night. And she was hungry.

She noticed something shining at her feet. A soldier's helmet—or what little part of it wasn't covered in soot—reflected the leftover patches of fire. Esmerelda's eyes widened as she came to a realization.

"Phoebus?"

"Mm?" he muttered, looking over at her. Esmerelda raised her head, glancing at the battlefield, and could make out several heaped forms sprawled out on the cobblestones.

"I hadn't realized…I—I'm sorry…"

"Es, what is it?" he murmured, worried to see her in more distress.

She looked into his eyes, nearly tearing up. "The soldiers…were any of them your friends?"

Phoebus stared at her, gently shaking his head in wonder. "Esmerelda," he breathed, crushing her in a sudden embrace. She returned the hug, bewildered, but only glad for the safe haven of his arms.

After a while, he gently pulled away, keeping his hands on her shoulders. "They weren't," he assured. "I'd only just returned to the city; there wasn't time to make friends. Besides. I could never get along closely with brutes."

Esmerelda returned the soft smile, once again feeling tears sting her eyes. "I'm glad…for both."

They returned to the position they'd been in and stayed that way in silence. The sounds of crackling fire and the cleanup job resounded through the courtyard, all under a thick blanket of hushed stillness. Esmerelda huddled close to Phoebus, trying with weary strength to fend off the monsters of grief and worry. They had won…and it was for the best, of course, and she _couldn't_ wish it had never happened…but just right now, it was hard to remember that Frollo was dead and they were all free.

After a short while, just as Esmerelda's heart was once again increasing its fluttering pace, the doors to the cathedral opened behind them. Startled, the couple broke their embrace and twisted around to see. Quasimodo stumbled from the darkness, his frantic eyes immediately locking on the two sitting on the stairs.

"Esm—Esmerelda!" he called, running haltingly towards them as they both stood up. "Phoebus—you've got to come!"

Esmerelda shook her head in confusion. "Quasimodo, what—"

"I saw him from one of the windows—w-we need to hurry! Come on!" He grabbed her by the wrist and before she knew it, they were running, Esmerelda being half-dragged behind as Quasi fearlessly lunged out into the courtyard and cleanup crews and the open Paris air. Phoebus had no problems keeping up, and soon Esmerelda didn't have to be pulled anymore—they followed him, bewildered, and the young woman's heart beat frantically against her ribcage. Try as she may to deny it, she could only think of one thing it could be…

Quasi led them away from the courtyard, all the way around the side of the giant cathedral. Esmerelda was surprised to find that the battle had spanned this far. It all looked like the courtyard, but with less debris, and more bodies… There wasn't time to think if that, though; Quasi didn't slow down a bit, even quickening his lurching, staggering pace. Nobody talked because they all forgot to.

Finally, as they reached the site of a huge, flame-consumed war-machine, Quasimodo slowed down. "H-here! Over here," he called, leading them around the destroyed and burning catapult—which, for some reason, was upside down.

Esmerelda hurried to follow him. As she stepped around the debris, the full view of her worst fear was revealed, and a freezing bolt of horror stabbed her through the chest.

Clopin lay among a pile of broken wooden beams—probably pieces of the shattered catapult. Even from here, she could see how weak he was. His face was weakly twisted up in pain. One arm clutched at a small, but apparently painful wound in his side. No hat, no mask, and his jet black hair scattered out in a stringy, blood-caked mess around his head. His shirt had been all but torn away at the shoulder—by a blade, judging from the gash that ran across his chest.

Esmerelda was frozen, but only for a split second. A formless shriek escaped her and she launched forward, crossing the open ground in an instant and spilling onto her knees by his side. "Clopin! Oh—oh _no_ Clopin! Are—ca-can you hear me? Clopin?" Her fluttering hands found his and she clung tightly to his limp fingers. She was frantic; she couldn't get herself to stop shouting. Somewhere in the background, Phoebus knelt at her side and Quasimodo was moving aside the debris that surrounded the fallen gypsy king.

Clopin's bloodstained, dirt-smudged face twisted further with pain. He barely rolled his head towards her, and his breathing seemed to pick up, but he still didn't open his eyes. A strangled moan of pain escaped him. "E-es…Es.."

Esmerelda barely registered the tears flooding her eyes, spilling down her cheeks. She squeezed his hand tighter, sobbing his name. Beside her, Phoebus brutally tore at his shirt until he had both sleeves ripped off. Handing them to Esmerelda, he kind of moved her out of the way and knelt beside Clopin.

"Quasimodo, I need your help."

Hesitant and unsure, Quasi knelt on the other side of the gypsy. With Phoebus's direction, he gently slid his arms under Clopin's back. Phoebus did the same and, working kind of like forklifts, the two of them lifted Clopin's torso away from the ground. The gypsy king tensed, crying out with renewed pain.

"Quickly, Es," Phoebus grunted. "Bind his shoulder first."

Numb, Esmerelda could only stare for a second before his words sunk into her frozen brain. She launched into action, using her dagger to split the shirt sleeves into thinner strips. One by one, she tied them around the deep gash in his shoulder. She had to tie some together so that they would reach around his waist, and used those to bind the stab wound in his side. The moment the makeshift bandages touched, they were soaked through with bright red, spreading like ink blotches.

The awful deed done, she sat back and raised her hands to stare at them, as the men lowered Clopin back to the ground. She couldn't even remember the past few minutes now, but she thought...yes, she must have...she had tied shirt sleeves around Clopin's mortal, bloody wounds. Dear goodness...how had she come into this horror story?

"M…_mon_…_chere_…"

Esmerelda's shocked eyes snapped to his face. "C—Clopin," she whispered, barely able to find her tongue.

His brilliant green eyes struggled open and, after a moment of searching, locked on her own emerald orbs. His voice was hoarse and caught in several places. "Th-there…there is—an un_holy_…look of fear on your face."

In an attempt to stop a rising sob, Esmerelda put a hand to her mouth. "Well," she mumbled, laughing brokenly as she gripped his hand. "If there is it's your fault!"

A wry grin began to form on Clopin's face, but it was interrupted by a sudden spasm of pain. A groan got caught in his throat and his free hand clutched the wound in his side. Esmerelda looked to Phoebus, her eyes pleading. She was lost. For the first time in years, she didn't know what to do.

Phoebus's eyes, for a moment, reflected her anguish. Then, his gaze steeled. "Who is the best healer in the gypsy band?"

Esmerelda thought for just a second, clearing her mind. "Ah—Sherrie. She's somewhere in the tents they set up in the courtyard."

He turned quickly to Quasimodo. "Stay here with them."

The hunchback nodded. "Hurry," he answered quietly. Quasi's eyes reflected hidden worry and turmoil—but only for a moment. He had to be strong and steady right now—like Phoebus.

Looking once more to Esmerelda, Phoebus raised a strong, steady hand to her face. "I'll be right back." Esmerelda clung to his hand, knowing and hating that he was right. It was stupid that she wanted him to stay right now. She nodded, pushing him away. "Go on—go on, hurry."

"Es…He'll be alright."

"Yes—go!"

Phoebus left at once, sprinting at full speed back to the courtyard. He rounded the corner and vanished. Quasimodo replaced him at her side, awkwardly placing a hand on her shoulder. Esmerelda turned back to Clopin. The sight shattered her heart all over again. From this close, she could see all the horrid little details. The only movement he made was the thin and shallow rise of his chest. He'd never looked so weak before. She couldn't ever remember seeing Clopin hurt—not even a papercut. He was too crafty. She never thought she'd see him like this…and why should she?

"Quasimodo…" Wiping her eyes, she took a deep breath, trying to steady her voice. "Thank God you saw him."

"W-well I…yes."

"Thank you."

"Of course…"

Then, Clopin stirred again, drawing their attention. He wrenched open his eyes again, and it seemed like it took all his effort just to turn his head towards them. "Ah…" he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. "W-what on Earth…are you two g-gawking at?"

Esmerelda snatched up the golden chance to talk to him. "I'd say…the most insufferable, confounded nuisance in all of Paris."

Clopin hissed through his teeth, playing at being hurt. "Oh, Esmerelda," he groaned. "P-perhaps the deepest wound I've s-suffered all night."

Esmerelda struggled to keep the turmoil off her face. "Oh, Clopin," she groaned, exasperated. She swallowed back the lump in her throat, but her voice was still strangled by the threat of tears. "You of all! How on _Earth_ could you let yourself get sliced up this badly?"

She noted with broken hope that a smile was forming on his face. "Sheer stupidity."

"Why didn't you call for _help_, Clopin!" She accused, smacking him gently on the shoulder. He didn't answer that, and something about his silence seemed deliberate. Esmerelda kept going. "You ought to be ashamed. Look what worry I've gone through."

"I h-hardly think…_you_ are the injured party here…" he murmured wryly.

"You owe Phoebus a new shirt."

Clopin began to laugh. The moment he did, his cruel wounds protested with a burst of pain, and he ended up crying out again instead. "Take it easy," Quasi's voice ordered gently. Esmerelda only bowed her head, her fingers clutching his hand, waiting for the storm to pass. Tears were flowing uninhibited down her face now.

When she looked at him again, fear jolted up her spine. His eyes were closed again, head falling limply to the side. In the firelight from the burning catapult behind them, she couldn't see very well, but she thought his face was paler now. He was getting worse. Worst of all—he stopped talking.

"Clopin?" she groaned miserably. He didn't answer, but she noticed how his breathing was slowing alarmingly…

"Clopin!"

"Esmerelda," Quasi's choked voice pleaded. "Please calm down, it's alright—"

"Clopin you wake up this _instant_!" Esmerelda gasped, shocked at the volume of her own voice. She glanced at Quasimodo's frightened and worried face. Calm. She had to be calm. She looked back to Clopin, though, and she didn't want to _be_ calm. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry and wail and slap him awake. Where in the world was _Phoebus_!

"Yes…do calm yourself, dear one."

Esmerelda could only stare in blank surprise. Clopin's jeweled eyes opened again, shining lucidly, locking her gaze in a grave stare. His weak voice was hoarse, but steady as iron. "You cannot hope to lead anyone if you lose your head in every small disaster."

Her breath was blasted away. Eyes as big as saucers, she shook her head slowly, panic building inside her like an explosion. "What…you…NO!" she shrieked suddenly, but Clopin wasn't looking at her anymore.

"Quasimodo," he rasped. The hunchback met his eyes, surprised that he would speak to him at all. Clopin offered him a half-grin, the most genuine smile he'd ever seen from the man. "Y-you are…a good man. A man f-far…greater—_ahh!"_ Clopin was cut off, writhing in torture for a tense moment.

Through the explosion of pain, he managed to choke out the direly important words, ones that the bell-ringer at the very least deserved to hear."Greater than kings…"

"Clopin…" Quasimodo whispered, feeling for the first time a large amount of Esmerelda's grief. He understood. Tears in his eyes, he answered in a strained voice, "You…you could be a great king, now…"

Clopin snorted a chuckle, turning away his head. The firelight flickered across his face, his sunken eyes falling closed. His breathing was slowing down again. "No!" Quasimodo whispered, but the gypsy didn't respond, or even look his way.

"Clopin!" The voice of steel resounded, commanding his attention. He rolled his head around and struggled to keep his eyes open to look into the face of the beautiful, strong woman he helped raise. Esmerelda's eyes held the fiery determination and defiance that he'd seen and encouraged countless times. "This is nonsense. This is a ridiculous, cliché role of an act you're pushing on me, and I will not stand for it."

Clopin's full attention was now on her. "Esmerelda," he whispered, unable to bring his voice any higher. "Someone must lead…"

"_That is your job, Clopin!_" She shrieked ferociously. The explosion died as soon as it had come, but the razor-sharp edge to her eyes remained. She would not be moved. "You can't just shove off this responsibility and leave! It's _your_ _job_." Again, her voice quivered, strangled by tears, but she didn't let it stop her.

As the tears fell, her eyes shifted away from anger and more towards desperation. "And you have to stay for it," she half-whispered. "_No one_ can fill your shoes. No...nobody else looks as good in the jester costume..."

For the first time, all of Clopin's weariness and pain showed on his face. He took in a halting breath and, shaking his head, struggled to speak. "You, Esmerelda…have a heart of wise compassion...and a just will of steel."

Sobbing only once, Esmerelda shook her head, a broken smile forming on her lips. Her emerald eyes pleaded as they shone with tears. "And you, _Oncle_, have now seen all a king needs to be great."

Clopin's stare locked with hers. No one said anything more. There was only the sound of the crackling fire and Clopin's raspy, shallow breathing. Far off, early-rising birds, oblivious to the cataclysm, sang to the dawn. Overhead, the sky was slowly being tinted by the first blue light of dawn.

Esmerelda turned her eyes to the sky, taking in a deep, shaky breath. "Your first show starts in a few hours."

"My…show…"

"Your...your puppet show, Clopin?" she whispered. His eyes were barely open and didn't even look at her. "Remember? You…can't disappoint your audience…"

Clopin's glossy eyes searched the empty air, darting back and forth as if he couldn't see. Finally, he found her eyes. He looked as helpless as she'd ever seen him. In the still and hushed quiet, the gypsy king reached out a shaking hand to Esmerelda's face. His cold fingers brushed her cheek, leaving streaks of blood across her skin.

"I'm so tired, _mon chere_…" he breathed, so low she could barely hear.

Esmerelda placed her hand over his, gripping his blood-coated fingers without heed or care. She was crying so much it was hard to reply. "Then think of all that gives you strength."

Images ran through his head. Barefooted gypsy children. Dances and music performed by firelight. Bells rung from the tower, smoke in multicolor, flashing colors and Topsy Turvy costumes. All the peasants and royalty in Paris rising up alongside gypsies to overthrow an army of soldeirs. Feasts in the Court. Puppet Frollo's head bashed in by a puppet-sized stick…a show would start in a few hours… Esmerelda, a child, riding on Oncle Clopin's shoulders.

Strength...

"Esmerelda!"

She and Quasimodo both turned around to the source of the call. Phoebus was sprinting towards them, a fairly-aged woman with a white bag running behind him.

"Hah…y-you see there?" Esmerelda breathed, looking back to the wounded gypsy king. "Now you have no choice. Sherrie won't _let_ you go."

"Oh, Esmerelda…my dear firebolt…" Slowly, Clopin smiled and shook his head, a dry chuckle escaping him. "I can't do anything with you around, can I?" he muttered, mocking aggravation. But his eyes shone with love and gratitude.

As Sherrie and Phoebus reached them, Esmerelda allowed herself to be shoved out of the way, all the while her eyes locked on Clopin and a smile on her lips. "Nothing foolish," she whispered, drowned out by Sherrie's strong and firm commands as the gypsy healer threw orders at Phoebus and Quasimodo, already launching into the doctoring business.

.~*~.

**A/N:** I'm back with more Clopin! :D The Hunchback was chief among my favorite movies as a kid. I recently found the old VHS and rediscovered the magic, which inspired my other HOND story (which you all should read). Now, after I've been reading other fics, I decided to feed this plot bunny I had. Also I discovered I really really love writing Clopin and Esmerelda.

Sooo, in the Disney film, after the colossal final battle and siege on Notre Dame, the courtyard is totally empty by morning and leaves no trace of the fight at all. Naturally, this includes no tension, cataclysmic aftermath, beauty from sorrow, OR any form of hurt/comfort whatsoever. What fun is that! And since I love doing aftermath scenes and wounded warriors and such, here I am with that. X]

Heh. Is it weird that I'm putting so much angsty darkness into a Disney film fanfic? …So be it. XD Enjoy, my dear readers!


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